Starting Conversations
by MildredandBobbin
Summary: "I'm afraid if I leave the room he'll vanish again," whispers John. Molly kisses his cheek. "I know." She lies next to John, her boyfriend of over a year and a half, and watches Sherlock sleep. Molly/John/Sherlock polyamory
1. I was scared of dentists and the dark

Title: Starting Conversations

Author: Mildredandbobbin

Rating: M

Pairings: Molly/John/Sherlock, John/Molly, John/Sherlock, Sherlock/Molly

Contents/warnings: Polyamory, Post-Reichenbach, OT3, Sherlolly - Freeform,Johnlock - Freeform, sherjolly

Author's note:

This was supposed to be a smutty one shot, instead it's become feels that I have to sort out. Title and chapter titles from 'Riptide' by Vance Joy.

Summary:

"I'm afraid if I leave the room he'll vanish again," whispers John. Molly kisses his cheek. "I know." She lies next to John, her boyfriend of over a year and a half, and watches Sherlock sleep.

* * *

**Chapter 1: I was scared of dentists and the dark**

Molly quietly pushes open the bedroom door.

John is lying on his side, head propped on one hand, watching the other occupant of the bed, a thin, dark-haired, hollow-cheeked fey creature who is finally sleeping deeply, curled up wearing one of John's t-shirts and a pair of too short pyjama bottoms.

John looks up at Molly and smiles softly. She enters the room and comes around the bed to John's side, sliding in behind him and looping her arm around his waist.

"I'm afraid if I leave the room he'll vanish again," whispers John.

Molly kisses his cheek. "I know."

She lies next to John, her boyfriend of over a year and a half and watches Sherlock, the man they thought they'd might never see again. Molly had lasted two weeks after Sherlock faked his death before she'd cracked under the weight of guilt and John's grief and told him the truth, or the small part of the truth that she knew. At first John had been angry and hurt but he'd kept the secret better than Sherlock had believed him capable. They'd bonded, John and Molly, over both their mutual affection for Sherlock and a need to share the knowledge that he was alive.

Without Sherlock there, occupying her attention, Molly finally noticed the strong, quiet command of John Watson, and that when he smiled at her, smiled properly, it did something rather lovely and fluttery to her middle. Somewhere along the line his friendly smile became a flirtatious one, coffee became dinner and weekly emails became daily texts. Eighteen months after Sherlock disappeared they finally got together.

Molly loves John very much. She loves his smile and his dry, warm wit. She loves that he's decent and kind and that he gets her sense of humour and thinks working in a morgue is interesting. He's the kind of man her friends always told her she deserved: steady, loyal, loving. He has a good job and he cares about her. They're friends as much as lovers. He does love her, but best of all, he likes her cat.

He's also as infatuated with Sherlock Holmes as Molly. When she sees John looking at Sherlock, she recognises herself.

John rolls onto his back and tugs her down to lie with him. She slips her hand in his and he kisses her hair and then looks back towards Sherlock again. Molly rests her head on his chest and watches Sherlock sleep as well.

He had appeared in their flat (it took six months but finally she thinks of 221B as _their_ flat) that morning; bruised, starved, dirty and half-delirious with fatigue. Three years and twenty-days since he faked his death.

He's as beautiful and ethereal as ever and the frisson that bolted through Molly when he appeared at their door hadn't been diminished by time and distance. She'd tucked shaking hands behind her back and watched John's breath quicken, staring at the gaunt figure in the doorway.

Now she allows herself to stare, to take in every plane, every perfect angle of that elegant face. She notes the fading bruise above his right eyebrow, the graze on his cheekbone, the roughness of his chapped lips. He's showered and shaved since he arrived, his face smooth again, hair no longer lank. He's as pale as ever, with shadows bruise-like under the dark sweep of his eyelashes.

They lie there, Molly and John, and watch Sherlock sleep.

When Molly wakes some hours later it is dark. She tugs down the duvet from under John's sleeping form and pulls it over both of them. John rolls over towards her with a sigh, wrapping his arm around her waist and Molly snuggles into him again.

"John." The word is small and muttered and as Sherlock shifts and makes another small sound, Molly realises this is what must have woken her.

"John," Sherlock mutters again. He's having a nightmare, Molly knows what nightmares sound like: she's been sleeping with John Watson after all.

In the dark she reaches over John and finds Sherlock's side with her fingertips.

He whimpers again, a small choked sound. "John…not—"

John stirs and shifts in Molly's arms, turning back towards Sherlock. "Shh, 's alright, 'm here," he mutters. "Shh it's John, you're safe."

Sherlock exhales and Molly feels Sherlock reach for John in the dark, his hand slides over her arm and grips John's shoulder. He gives a small sigh of contentment and John grunts, a satisfied sound, shifting closer still and then their breathing evens out. Eventually Molly falls back to sleep, thinking of a tall, thin figure, lost and alone for such a very long time.

When she wakes again, sunlight is streaming in through the cracks in the curtains and she is warm and wrapped around John. She stretches, luxuriating against his body - not something she's taken for granted yet - and nuzzles at the whiskery skin below his jaw. He makes a small contented noise and presses his cheek back. There's a low rumble off to the side and when a hand brushes against Molly's arm, a spike of excitement thrills through her as she suddenly realises whose hand it is and that Sherlock is back and is here _with them_. She looks up. Sherlock's eyes are closed but he rubs his cheek against the soft cotton of John's t-shirt and emits another rumble of contentment. John hums lightly and turns his face towards Sherlock's, their noses brush and Molly sees a John's mouth crease into a smile.

When Sherlock brushes his lips against John's it seems like an accident.

But then John brushes back and Sherlock's eyes snap open. He raises his head, and Molly's heart is suddenly in her throat because he leans forward and crushes his mouth to John's. He's kissing John, _her_ John, and John is kissing back and – Molly's heart is thudding and her stomach is a tangle of knots but _oh god_ it's erotic.

At her sharp intake of breath, Sherlock pulls back and his eyes lock on hers for a long moment. His expression is bare and it's not his fake manipulative one, this is the one she'd seen that Christmas, when he'd realised Molly's gift had been for him (when he kissed her on the cheek), the one he wore when he told her she counted and asked her to fake his death. Her chest feels very tight and when she glances at John she sees him staring at Sherlock too, lips still parted. Then Sherlock's hand curls around the nape of Molly's neck and he pulls her forward, and kisses her as well. It seems like a dream, it must be a dream, because she's pressed against John and he's _right there_ but she's kissing Sherlock and Sherlock is kissing her, and it feels warm and wanting.

Sherlock draws back and John is there instead, kissing Molly fiercely, possessively, but Sherlock's hand is still in her hair and she feels his lips on her cheek and suddenly Molly turns to meet his mouth again, that gorgeous mouth. John rocks against her, his mouth drawing along her throat and then to Sherlock's. Their bodies, all three of them, press and rub against each other. Sherlock pulls away to kiss John again and then Molly takes a turn until soft, open mouthed kisses, are being shared and passed between them. Hands move, hips and thighs and bodies move – touching gently at first and then urgently, relief, grief and years of wondering and missing assuaged and shown with hungry mouths and trembling hands. Clothes are pulled up and pushed aside, until John's mouth is alternating between Sherlock's lips and Molly's nipple, his hand tucked between her thighs. Sherlock's hand is closed about John and Molly catches his kisses in between as her palm moves over his sleek hardness. Soft moans and rough groans are punctuated with whispered endearments.

They come; John first, Sherlock last and Molly in between, flushed and breathless.

Afterwards, as all three of them lie tangled and sated and Sherlock has drifted off to sleep again, John raises his head and looks at Molly with a rueful, bemused expression. She bites her lip for a moment and John exhales and then they're both biting back giggles because _they just had sex with Sherlock, _and this, this is utterly mad. He kisses her sweetly then, and they sneak out of bed to shower and dress without waking Sherlock.

In the kitchen, while the kettle is boiling, John pulls Molly into his arms again and kisses her solemnly, as if he feels he needs to reassure her, or maybe himself.


	2. This cowboy's running from himself

**Chapter 2: This cowboy's running from himself**

The day is tedious and Sherlock just wants to return to the safe cocoon of John's bed in the room that had once been his. There are many changes in 221B, the presence of Molly not being the least of them. The upstairs room has been converted into a workspace, there's been rearrangements and additions and somehow it all seems _neater. _Perhaps it is not Molly but his absence that has wrought this transformation; order has come to 221B in the absence of chaos.

The changes make Sherlock twitch in a way that leaves his shoulders aching even more once intruding visitors have had their fill. Mycroft, Lestrade and some busybody from the Guardian Mycroft has entrusted to break the news of Sherlock's return from the dead. Mrs Hudson fusses, John lurks, Molly twitters. There are plans and discussions and conversations. It's hellish and Sherlock is used to his mind and company being his own. He's not used to this level of intrusion after so many months of keeping his own counsel. Everyone wants to _know _and _know _and _know._

By the end of the day Sherlock has snatched up his violin (kept safe by Mycroft, an interference Sherlock will forgive) and has begun playing to the exclusion of all else.

After a while he has calmed a little, enough to permit outside stimulus to filter into his awareness.

The flat is quiet and panic seizes him, sudden, illogical terror of being left alone. It is dark, the lamp sheds the only light. Ah. It is nearly 11pm. He has lost time. He abandons his violin and in a moment he is at the closed bedroom door.

Sherlock pushes the door open quietly and sees the two figures in bed, curved together. His throat closes suddenly and he swallows against tightness and unexpected want. He recalls with too sharp clarity the intimacy of that morning; a mistake surely, an aberration and a risk (but oh, a temptation he couldn't resist). John and Molly. Molly and John. Both so pathetically pleased to see him, why? Sentiment? He can't resist it, the care and affection they shower upon him. But they have each other and who is he but an interloper now?

He stands staring at the bed for too long and Molly stirs, blinking up at him.

He should go. He should return to the living room and sleep on the sofa.

"Get in idiot." John's voice is rough with sleep. "I won't sleep properly otherwise, worrying I'm going to wake up and find you've pissed off somewhere again."

Sherlock still hesitates. What does this mean? This invitation? He should despise this tableau of domesticity but he yearns with a humiliating ache to be a part of it.

Molly however throws back the covers and slides out of bed, a small, slim figure in an oversized man's t-shirt that falls to mid-thigh. Her long hair is loose down her back and she has an element of innocent sexuality that The Woman had failed to achieve in similar circumstances. It is this guilelessness that has always confused Sherlock. Her interest in him is earnest and sincere but for a long time Sherlock looked for a non-existent ulterior motive, a falsity to equal his own. He knows now there never was one, he knew it three years ago when he asked her to help him fake his death.

"Come on," she says. "You can have the middle."

Sherlock sheds the dressing gown that he'd thrown on over his own pyjamas, retrieved during the day from where they'd been stored along with his other clothes and personal effects (he has lost too much weight for his suit trousers and shirts, so pyjamas it is).

She waits patiently for him to cross the vast distance from doorway to bed and then climb in, shifting over next to John who huffs and offers one of his pillows. Sherlock lies down and Molly slips in beside him, pulling the covers up over them both. She turns to Sherlock and squeezes his bicep once before looping her arm about his middle. Then John shifts closer too and presses his lips to Sherlock's shoulder in a chaste, affectionate gesture.

He lies there in their embrace. They are fond and _forgiving, _still impossibly pleased to have him back. He has expected more anger, more rage (especially from John). But Molly's revelation early on has mitigated that and given John time to process Sherlock's actions. As Sherlock expected, Molly had been unable to hold her secret for very long in the face of John's grief – long enough to give him a head start, not so long that John had to suffer indefinitely. The resulting sexual relationship between Molly and John is an unintended consequence, but perhaps the inevitable outcome of the intimacy of a shared secret.

He feels curiously safe with both of them, he trusts them not to mock or use him. Sweet, unassuming Molly with her surprising core of steel and John, magnificent, capable and painfully loyal. He breathes in their mingled scents and the memories of this morning return more forcefully than before.

He feels suddenly overwhelmed and gives a shuddering sigh. He wants more of this soft affection, as much as they will give.

Molly's thumb rubs a small circle on his chest and Sherlock sinks into the simple touch (too long without friends, without intimate human contact). Her smaller fingers trail lightly over his t-shirt and a sound embarrassingly like a whimper escapes his lips. He feels John's lips curve into a smile against his shoulder and that firm, doctor-soldier's hand splays on his abdomen and trails down towards his hip. Sherlock's breath catches in a gasp. He feels so needy but that's because he is, he's starved for this affection.

He stretches the fingers of his right hand and finds Molly's thigh, with his left thumb he rubs at the soft skin of John's waist.

He turns his face towards John and presses his lips to his forehead until John lifts his face and their noses bump and then John's thin, expressive mouth opens under his again, sending spikes of want ricocheting down Sherlock's spine. He's wanted to feel John like this for such a very long time, has imagined it in shamefully explicit detail. The actuality makes him ache, makes his limbs weak as if the very flesh will fall from his bones.

Molly's fingertips stroke along the side of his neck, over his collarbone and then down his body to circle his lower abdomen and glide along the edge of the waistband of his trousers. He nips at Johns bottom lip and slides his hand higher on Molly's thigh, up under her nightdress to the soft curve of her hip. He feels a sense of obligation to her, of vague guilt and owing her recompense, he wants to give her this, to apologise, to show her she matters and he hasn't forgotten, and he does want her, yes, despite her insecure belief to the contrary. He wants her warmth and her gentleness and her sweet kisses and her generosity. He wants her small, shy smile and her silly inexplicable crush and her devotion. He wants that still - selfishly, greedily, _he wants her to want him_. So his hand glides further, over sensible cotton knickers, under the edges to tease and make her shiver even as John's kisses make him tremble, even as Molly's questing fingertips touch and stroke and make him throb.

John is holding him, hand firm on his side, tongue and mouth taking and giving in equal measure and Sherlock can easily lose himself in this sensation, in John's mouth and Molly's hands. Molly's lips caress his shoulder and then John's hand curls in his t-shirt and releases before travelling down to join Molly's; dipping under Sherlock's waistband, caressing and stroking. Sherlock arches into two tormenting, contradictory, unpredictable touches. He rocks his hips, surrounded and covered and possessed. He turns his head from John to find Molly's mouth, delighting in her willingness, her eagerness, and then he draws his mouth away completely, too overwhelmed, awash with sensation and building, growing, unbearable tension –

"Shh, shh," John murmurs. "That's it, God Sherlock, yes—"

And Sherlock is disarmed completely. He comes, stiffening and jerking, clutching at Molly and John and biting back his cries.

Afterwards he watches in the semi-dark as Molly straddles John and they rock together with a fierce urgency, sharing tender, open kisses, chasing their mutual completion.

Molly slips out of bed when they are finished to go to the bathroom and John lies panting, an arm thrown over his forehead.

"Fuck that was good," he gasps and squeezes Sherlock's hand in the dark.

Sherlock swallows. "Yes," he manages and when Molly returns he lets them both wrap him up in arms and legs and soft sighs of contentment.


	3. I wanna be your left hand man

**Chapter 3: I wanna be your left hand man**

John is happy, very happy; Sherlock is back and he's alive and he's at 221B. Every time John thinks of this fact a bubble of joy wells up inside his chest. He keeps catching Molly's eye and they both grin. He knows Molly feels the same, catches her smiling at nothing, sees her watching Sherlock with a quiet, pleased look.

The sex bemuses John but he tries not to put too much store by it, too much thought into it, taking each encounter as it comes. Whatever Sherlock's reasons for accepting John and Molly's attention, it can't last much longer. This thing is fleeting and John refuses to question or analyse it, but instead accepts it willingly while it's on offer. In the past (before this thing) when he thought about a threesome he's always imagined it with two women, never thought he'd be happy sharing a girlfriend with another man. Yet it's not like that with Molly. It's him and Molly getting to share Sherlock, both allowed to touch and give for just a little while.

John hopes Sherlock is happy. He's not sure, and if he's going to worry about anything, it's Sherlock's mental and physical health. Sherlock's quieter than he used to be and he seems to command less space. He is still catching up on sleep, eating more than he ever used to and he doesn't complain of boredom or demand cases, instead he seems happy to just _sit._ He curls in on himself on the sofa, arms about his knees and just thinks. He will participate in conversations if pressed but seems to prefer to simply observe. Sometimes though he'll play his violin for hours at a time, with such emotion that John wonders where he keeps it all - but then people have different coping mechanisms.

At night, Sherlock slips into their bed and crawls between them. Sometimes he touches, exploring tentatively, sometimes he responds to a simple affectionate gesture with such a needy, wanting sound that it goes straight to John's groin. Sometimes they simply sleep. Sometimes John thinks it's actually about comfort to Sherlock and then he feels guilty for turning it into sex, even if Sherlock's hard against him and whimpering against his mouth, even if Sherlock is kissing Molly in a way that makes John want, but _want who_, he's never sure.

The first time Sherlock goes down on John he comes embarrassingly quickly, with Molly's lips against his and his fingers inside her. When Sherlock pulls back afterwards his erection bobs hard and red, and Molly is wet, flushed and biting her bottom lip in that way of hers. She glances at John, at Sherlock and back again, and Sherlock's gaze, dark with lust, flickers between the two of them. John knows what they are asking and he squeezes Molly's hand and reaches for the pack of condoms in answer. Blushing a bit, fumbling a bit more, John rolls one onto Sherlock and lies next to Molly as Sherlock enters her. He kisses them both in turn until the pleasure becomes too much for Sherlock and Molly and they are reduced to open mouthed panting, so John strokes Molly's hair and tells her how beautiful she is as she gasps and arches under Sherlock. As for Sherlock, he rises over Molly, lean sinewy muscles flexing with each thrust, his gaze fixed on both of them in turn, as if he wants to store every moment in his Mind Palace. His face twists almost painfully and his eyes shut tight when he comes with a strangled moan. John never thought he'd find a man this bloody attractive, this beautiful.

They both curl around Molly afterwards and John feels more protective of her than usual and she kisses him gently and strokes his face soothingly.

"Was that all right?" she whispers, worrying her bottom lip. "With us I mean."

John reassures her it was, it is, and he kisses her again, and then finds Sherlock's hand and lifts it to his lips as well. He sees Sherlock's eyes flutter closed as he places a tender kiss on Molly's shoulder.

* * *

A week later, Sherlock appears in the kitchen dressed top to toe in Spencer Hart and Dolce & Gabbana. He steals John's toast, takes a sip of Molly's tea and declares he's going out. John feels his throat tighten inexplicably and when he looks at Molly he knows she's feeling the same nameless worry. Sherlock pauses in the act of tying his scarf.

"Case John. Don't just sit there, are you coming or not?"

Molly's cheeks dimple in a smile she tries to hide in her tea, her fine eyes dancing. John grins and is on his feet in seconds. He's already grabbing his phone, ready to call in sick to the clinic.

"Molly, I'll need some lab work done in approximately two and a half hours," says Sherlock pulling on his gloves. "If you'd care to assist?"

Molly's eyes are very big and she puts her tea cup down carefully, biting her bottom lip to stop the squeak John is sure she wants to make. "Of course," she says finally. "I'll meet you both at Barts."

Sherlock nods, he glances at John and tilts his head towards the door. "Triple murder, John, and a locked room. Come on!"

And then they are bounding down the stairs, hailing a cab and haring through London on the path of a murderer.

* * *

Sherlock is brilliant and John tells him so and for a moment John desperately wants to kiss him, there in the alley with a blood spatter pattern on the wall, but it seems wrong somehow, without Molly there, without her knowing. So instead he clears his throat and looks away.

"Barts then?" he says and if Sherlock's response is a little quiet, a little subdued, John tries not to think about it.

John kisses Molly hello when they arrive at the lab and Sherlock stands apart for a moment before sweeping past to take over the equipment and start giving orders.

He is brusque and efficient and it's exactly like old times, except now, when Sherlock barks at Molly thoughtlessly, sharply enough to make her startle and press her lips together, John rankles.

"Sherlock," he says softly, warningly.

Sherlock looks up at his tone.

"What?" he snaps, then sees John's glance towards Molly, sees Molly's tight fake smile. Sherlock's mouth tightens and he looks down again. He swallows. "My apologies," he says roughly. "_Please_ Molly."

And when she hands him the next slide, he catches her hand with his for a moment and looks up at her. She studies him for a long moment and then smiles and Sherlock releases her hand and returns to his microscope but John feels a tension that he hadn't even been aware of suddenly ease.

That night Molly seems tender and more attentive than usual towards Sherlock. When John, trying not to feel left out, leans in to take his turn, Sherlock looks at him with a hesitancy that makes John wonder if perhaps he's missed something, but then Sherlock responds fiercely and John stops thinking altogether. He takes the kiss he wanted in the alley and then some and he tries to express with mouth and hands just how fucking brilliant he thinks Sherlock is and how very much he wants him.


End file.
